


Man Like That

by castielsass



Series: Hunters [4]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Dark, Disabled Character, M/M, Self-Harm, disabled joel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:10:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2905391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielsass/pseuds/castielsass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>tw for self harm, and the usual gore, murder-y vibe, limb amputation talk</p>
    </blockquote>





	Man Like That

**Author's Note:**

> tw for self harm, and the usual gore, murder-y vibe, limb amputation talk

It was when the pencil sharpener, usually tossed into the kitchen drawer, went missing that Gavin realised what was happening. The topper was usually thrown into the drawer, had been left there by builders ages ago and never really used, but Gavin noticed it was missing when he went to the drawer for a hot water bottle. He rifled through the drawer quickly, pamphlets and grocery bags spilling out the sides. It was gone. Gavin slammed the drawer shut.  
“Goddamn it Ray!”  
Rage descended on Gavin, clouding his mind and making his hands shake. Michael pulled himself up from the sofa.  
“He’s in the bathroom, what the hell?” Michael said, a furrow between his brows.  
“He’s a fuckin’ dickhead idiot, that’s what,” Gavin hissed. He pounded on the door and the cheap lock snapped, falling to the linoleum floor with a soft thump. The door swung open and Gavin threw himself through it.  
“God-fuckin’ dammit Ray,” he hissed. Michael appeared behind him swiftly, frowning. Gavin snatched the broken sharpener off the floor.  
“Give it to me,” he demanded.  
“Fuck off,” Ray hissed, hoarse and furious. His hands burrowed into the pockets of a too-large hoodie and Gavin followed them, fighting his clutching hands from the blade. The loose screw that held the blade to the plastic caught under Gavin’s knee and scratched painfully. He reflexively jolted. His unbalanced weight toppled them both over, crashing to the floor. Gavin lifted himself up and brushed his front down, his hands smearing on warm blood. Ray’s shorts were pulled to his knees, wet blood collecting in furrowed scars, silver and pink and red, and the angry, fresh slashes on his upper thigh. Michael’s hands came down underneath Gavin’s armpits and he heaved him up easily.  
“I’ll talk to him,” Michael said. Gavin kicked reflexively, scowling and wriggling himself free.  
“You better!” He huffed, anger and worry etching his forehead into lines. “You’re being an arsehole, Ray!”  
“Fuck off!” Ray yelled and the quick shock of his voice raised so loud startled them both. Gavin left, slamming the bathroom door behind him and stalking into the bedroom.  
“Ray,” Michael started. He didn’t quite know how to go on. He took Ray’s hands at the wrists, little marks and scratches on his fingers from where the blade had slipped still dripping blood.  
“What’s wrong?”  
Ray looked at him, and blinked slowly, his eyes shining. He shook his head from side to side, slow as a pendulum. The blade tapped into Michael’s palm, and Ray pulled his shorts up, blood slowing, but leaking into the material.  
Michael stood to leave, to let him clean himself up when Ray’s words, quiet and firm stopped him.  
“I can’t do this. I can’t live like this, not any more.”  
“Like what?” Michael demanded. Ray shook his head, something like confusion and pity mixed in his eyes.  
“It works for you and Gavin, you’re...different than me, and you have each other, but I’m… I don’t have anyone. Not anymore. I’m not like you guys,” he whispered.  
Michael gripped his shoulder hard, his fingernails digging into skin.  
“You made a sacrifice for the team, we appreciate that, but you’re wrong if you think you’re different than us. You can do this. You just need to practice, and you need to forget about Heyman. Christ, Ray, he was a fucking cop.”  
“I was a cop,” Ray murmured.  
“And you left. You made that choice. What’d you wanna do now, go back? See if they’ll give you your gun and your badge if you ask real nice? Why’d you even wanna be a cop? You wanted to kill people legally?”  
Ray’s eyes drifted upward, settling on the ceiling.  
“You’re with us now. We love you,” Michael reminded him. “You don’t have anybody else, Ray. But it’ll be ok. We’ll teach you, we can help you be better at this.”  
“Ok,” Ray mumbled.

Joel didn’t sleep that night, he planted himself in his recliner, his gun resting on his thigh, a glass of bourbon in his other hand. The night grew long and blue and shadows threw his heart into pulsations of fear and bitter, bitter hope. A stray dog climbed up into his porch around three am and the sound of soft padded footsteps rose him. He crept to the wall beside the porch, peering out into the darkness until the shadow outside formed itself into a sleeping dog. He returned to his seat. 

Joel had drifted off, his head tilted back uncomfortably a few hours later when the streaks of sun coloured the sky. His eyes opened, slow and heavy, weariness weighing him. The cool smoothness of glass had been replaced by warm, soft flesh and Joel swallowed a noise. Ray curled up on his lap, his head pressed against his chest, smelling like jasmine and smoke and blood. Joel rubbed his hand over his face, scrubbing his eyes and he swallowed again. Ray stirred on his lap, slipping free of his tight hold and sliding his head onto Joel’s shoulder.  
“Are you afraid of me?” Ray whispered. Joel’s jaw tightened, and he was suddenly paranoid that when he went to work the cops would smell it on him, smell the soft jasmine and blood scent of Ray and they’d know. His hands wound around Ray’s hips, resting his wrist along the short line of Ray’s small thighs. The recoil Ray gave when he rested his weight made Joel sigh and abruptly he was six months earlier where the only thing he had to worry about was working hard and getting home with Ray at a reasonable time. He eased up the edge of Ray’s hoodie and the hem of his shorts, revealing bloodied bandages, and trembling dark thighs. 

Joel’s hands shook with purpose as he roused Ray, led him into the bedroom and sat beside him on the firm mattress, a first-aid kit on his knee. Ray slipped off his shorts with no argument and lay his leg outstretched by Joel, his foot cupped in the bowl of Joel’s thigh and stomach. Joel unclicked the box, ripping dirty bandages from Ray’s skin. He swiped the cuts with antiseptic, examining the deeper ones to see if they needed stitches and made a butterfly closure for one. He lay the old bandages under Ray’s leg to collect the blood leaking from disturbed wounds. The sun rose slow and low in Joel’s window, illuminating the dips and cracks in Ray’s skin. For a moment Joel stopped, the bandage scissors cold in his tight hand. He saw himself knocking Ray over the top of the head, straddling him and clasping the soft dark hair at the back of his head and using it to slam his forehead into the bedpost and knock him out. He watched himself take the scissors in his hand and snip through tissue-he’d simply follow the lines Ray had already made, just deepen the guidelines, cut through yellowish fatty tissue and lever the thighbone over the bedpost, snap it. He could cauterise the wound, sew up any open lines and clean up the blood with rags, then burn them. Ray would be stuck here, with him. His hands worked while his mind raced ahead, neatly bandaging wounds and wrapping with a pressure bandage to slow bleeding. Joel blinked himself back into reality, rejoining the half-world between day and night, righteousness and Ray.  
“You make me afraid of myself,” Joel said, finally answering.


End file.
